of the rector of one of these villages as a rather original
man, and went and discussed the subject with him. "It is
quite useless thinking about it," he said. "The people here
are clods, and will not respond to any effort you can make to
introduce a little light and sweetness into their lives."
There was no more to be said to him, but I knew he was wrong.
I found the villagers in that part of the country the most
intelligent and responsive people of their class I had ever
encountered. It was a delightful experience to go into their
cottages, not to read them a homily or to present them with a
book or a shilling, nor to inquire into their welfare,
material and spiritual, but to converse intimately with a
human interest in them, as would be the case in a country
where there are no caste distinctions. It was delightful,
because they were so responsive, so sympathetic, so alive.
Now it was just at this time, when the subject was in my mind,
that the book of sonnets came into my hands--given to me by
the generous caretaker--and I read in it this one on "Innocent
Amusements":-

There lacks a something to complete the round
Of our fair England's homely happiness
A something, yet how oft do trifles bless
When greater gifts by far redound
To honours lone, but no responsive sound
Of joy or mirth awake, nay, oft oppress,
While gifts of which we scarce the moment guess
In never-failing joys abound.
No nation can be truly great
That hath not something childlike in its life